Hello again! So as I mentioned in my last update, I am going to try and update this fic A LOT this month, so we can get to that blessed event *wedding bells playing* BUT there are going to be moments, like this chapter, where our babies encounter certain people that may pave the way to certain events or outcomes. And while there is *still* a great bit of mystery around the character of Liam Doyle, you will learn a bit more about him in this chapter, as well as some others, too.

THANK YOU for all the feedback and for reading! I hope you continue to enjoy as we slowly (but surely) get closer to Tom and Sybil's wedding!

Chapter Fourteen

"Branson!"

Tom lifted his head at the sound of his name, his brow furrowed as he met the gaze of one of Harry Roarke, a fellow writer (or he would be, when the day Mr. Quinn gave him the opportunity to do so, arrived). Harry was making a motion for Tom to leave his desk and come over to him. Still confused, Tom abandoned the articles he was editing, picking up his jacket but not bothering to put it back on as he approached.

"Visitor to see you," Harry explained as Tom got closer. Without further explanation, Harry turned and walked away, leaving Tom to deal with his "visitor" by himself. Tom's brow only furrowed even more, and he looked down the stairs where Harry had been standing…his eyes widening as the figure that had been standing at their base turned to look at him.

"Hello, Tommy. I um…I trust, you've recovered from our fun, this past Friday?"

Liam.

The man was standing there, looking rather sheepish and idiotic, a stupid smile on his face that no doubt people like his cousin found endearing. Unlike the other times Tom had seen Liam Doyle, the man was wearing a suit coat, though he didn't necessarily look to be entirely comfortable in it. His hand was off and Liam seemed to be twisting it in his hands, in a somewhat nervous gesture that reminded Tom of poor William.

Despite this "surprise" visit, and Liam's light tone, Tom was in no mood to put up with the other man, especially after Friday night. "I don't have time for this," he muttered, turning on his heel, ready to walk away and throw over his shoulder that Liam could go to hell. But Liam must have been anticipating that, because Tom hadn't gone three steps before he felt the other man's hand on his elbow.

"I understand that you're upset—"

"Upset!?" Tom wanted to roar, whirling around and shaking Liam's hand off his elbow. "Upset?" he repeated, lowering his voice just slightly. They weren't standing directly in front of anyone, and the writing offices of The Irish Republic were always loud, with the sounds of men talking and typing. Still, Tom didn't want an audience, so despite his initial reaction to simply walk away, he now moved past Liam, down the stairs and stopping at the landing where his old friend had been originally standing. Liam followed.

"'Upset' would be you not paying for your round, and leaving me with the bill. This…this is much, much more than 'upset'," he growled.

Liam sighed and took a step back from Tom, lifting his hands up in a gesture that was meant to signify peace. "Alright, I'm sorry mate—"

"I'm not your 'mate', Liam. I haven't been for a long, long time."

Was it his imagination? Or did Liam look…disappointed, by this?

"It was just meant to be a bit of fun—"

"Well the next time you decide to have a 'bit of fun', leave Sybil out of it," he snarled.

Again, Liam seemed to wince and look genuinely upset and sorry at this revelation. Tom couldn't deny it unnerved him a little; it was very "unlike" the Liam Doyle he had once known.

"How is your lady?" he asked, his voice a bit softer than earlier.

Tom bit the inside of his cheek, considering how to respond. There was a part of him, a strong part, that wanted to lash out at his former friend, however the rational side of his brain was pointing to how apologetic Liam looked, and how his voice was filled with regret. So instead of losing his temper has he almost done upon first speaking, Tom folded his arms across his chest and fixed Liam with a dark frown, but spoke to him a much more "civil" tone than he had originally been contemplating.

"She's doing much better…now," Tom muttered. "She spent all of Saturday sick and in bed, but yesterday she felt fit enough to go to church at least…though her head was still throbbing, she told me," he growled, his eyes narrowing as he glared back at Liam.

Liam sighed and stuffed his hands into his pockets before lowering his head. "I'm sorry to hear that…though I'm glad she's improved—"

"Were you trying to get Sybil drunk?"

Liam's head whipped up so quickly, Tom thought the man may have given himself whiplash. But he kept his eyes steady on that of the other man, his jaw set and his body stiff, every muscle tense and ready.

"Was I…? No, no, Tommy, I swear!"

Tom's glare didn't waver. "You had insisted that she come to the pub, you wanted both of us there—"

"I was just trying to be friendly and welcoming! That's it!" Liam defended. He looked more shocked than insulted by the accusation Tom was laying before. It only caused him to frown more.

"Look, I…you're right, I shouldn't have goaded her to drinking all that whiskey," he mumbled, looking sheepish once again. "I…I did assume that she wasn't familiar with the stuff, being posh and all..."

Tom stiffened at this. Yes, Sybil was "posh", there was no denying that; her accent gave away more than the just the fact that she was English. But there was certainly a judgment that followed that word, an assumption that Sybil was no different from the Anglo-Irish aristocrats that he and many others had worked for in Ireland. And he hated that, he hated that people thought they had her pegged before getting to know her. How was that any different than people like Lord Grantham and his peers, figuring they had him pegged?

"I didn't mean any harm, I swear," Liam went on, drawing Tom back from his thoughts. "I…I will admit, I was amused, seeing her 'rise to the challenge', but I had no intention of making her ill! I mean that, Tommy, I do, and I'm sorry."

Tom ground his teeth for a moment as he assessed Liam's words and expression. The man did look sorry, and he certainly did sound it. Perhaps he genuinely was?

"It's not me you should be apologizing to," he muttered after a pause.

Liam lifted a brow at this. "Aye, I agree, but…I figured you wouldn't want me to go anywhere near your lady."

He wasn't wrong, not entirely at least. But Tom didn't want to be one "those men", the kind who were possessive of their wives and sweethearts, who didn't like it when they spoke or were seen with another man. He trusted Sybil, he knew she loved him, and it would be a great insult to her if he tried to dictate who she could speak with. "Give your daughter some credit for knowing her own mind!" He'd be a right hypocrite if he went back on his beliefs now, just because he didn't like Liam Doyle. Besides, as Sybil had said to him last night, the two of them were sitting outside in the back garden, his arms around her waist and her body practically sagged against him, looking utterly exhausted, "now that I know what it's like to be horribly drunk…I do not think it is an experience I need to repeat. Nor wish to."

Yes, Sybil could be rather competitive, she always had been, but she had learned her lesson the hard way, after that "hangover from hell", so the likelihood that she would ever allow Liam Doyle or anyone, to goad her into another drinking contest, was extremely slim.

"I don't speak for Sybil," Tom muttered. "She's her own person and always has been."

Liam gave a smile at that, and Tom could see in the corners of that smile, the old familiar "charm", his old friend was known for. "Aye, she'd have to be, to choose giving all that up to come here—no offense," he was quick to add.

Tom bit the inside of his cheek and simply turned his head. "Are we done?" he asked. His colleagues would be taking notice (if they hadn't already) that he had been gone from his desk for quite some time.

"Just one more thing," Liam said, lifting a hand to urge Tom to not walk away, not just yet. "I…I didn't just come here to apologize," he explained. "I…I want to make it up to you."

Tom frowned. "Make it up to me?" he repeated. "There's…there's nothing to make up, Liam." And Liam was daft if he thought Tom would agree to go with him for another drink.

But Liam persisted. "I've never been one that believes much in 'fate' or 'destiny', but…but maybe there was something that brought the two of us back together after all this time…"

Tom stared at Liam in utter confusion. "What? What are you talking—"

"When I asked you what you were doing now, and your fiancée revealed that you're a journalist, a journalist for a pro-republican paper that, like I said on Friday, hasn't been driven underground by the British, at least not yet. But Quinn's a smart businessman, at least that's what I've heard, that I have no doubt he'll make sure The Irish Republic continues printing the truth about this country, even after the British put a lock on its doors—"

"What…what are you saying?" Tom asked, still very confused and wanting Liam to get to the point.

"I'm saying…we can help each other."

Tom blinked for several seconds. "Help…each other?" Help each other how?

"That's right," Liam went on. "I mean…it was more or less revealed that you're not writing here, at least not yet," he was quick to add, though Tom still felt the sting of Liam's words, whether they were meant or not.

"So?" Tom asked, folding his arms across his chest once again.

"So? So I'd imagine you'd like to change that, right?" Liam chuckled.

Of course he was right, that didn't mean Tom wanted to admit it.

"What do they have you doing right now?"

Tom frowned. "Editing and proof-reading at the moment," he muttered. "But that's how everyone here starts, and when my time comes, I'll know it's because I earned it, not because—"

"Tommy, I mean no disrespect; I wasn't trying to imply anything!" Weren't you? Tom wanted to ask, but he kept his mouth closed. "And of course it will because you've 'earned it'," Liam continued. "But…maybe, with my help…you can earn it a little faster?"

Tom's head was spinning. Liam needed to get to the point and get to it now. And as if reading his thoughts, Liam finally explained what this was all about.

"This may come as a surprise to you, Tommy, but…the truth is, I've gotten rather political over the past few years."

That did surprise him. The Liam Doyle he remembered never cared much about politics the way he did, though he wasn't so indifferent to it the way Martin was.

"I guess you could say it happened after the Rising," Liam went on to explain. "I…I was in Belfast then, but…but I heard all about it, and…and it angered me so much, the injustice that took place, the men whose lives were stolen—good men, innocent men! Men like your cousin, Martin—"

Liam stopped himself at the cold look Tom threw his way. He lowered his eyes apologetically before continuing.

"Anyway…after the Rising…I…I felt the call to come back to Dublin. So a few months later, I returned, found work down by the docks, and have been here since."

Tom simply shrugged his shoulders at this. Alright, so Liam had just explained when and why he had come back to Dublin, but he still hadn't explained what the entire point to this story was—

"There's this…group…that I belong to," Liam explained. He had lowered his voice significantly, even though there was no one standing around them. Tom had to lean in to hear him.

"A group?"

Liam nodded. "Aye, we…we meet in secret—we have to," he explained. He glanced around them, looking a bit suspicious, before continuing. "We've written some pamphlets…but if the British got a hold of them, we would all be arrested. So we have to be very careful, you understand."

He did, to a point. There were plenty of groups that printed and distributed anti-British rule propaganda, just as there were groups that printed and distributed the opposite. But there was something that Liam wasn't telling him, at least that was the feeling Tom was getting. Something about his particular group that stood out from others…or was that simply what Liam wanted Tom to think? Maybe his group wasn't so different from others? Just thought of themselves as such?

"I still don't see how this helps me…" Tom went on.

"I'm getting to that," Liam muttered. "Like I told you, we've written several pamphlets, but we want to get our message out there to a larger group of people, and the best way to do that is…well, is to have someone write a column for us!"

Tom stared back at Liam for a long time, blinking like he had done earlier, as the weight of Liam's simple words settled over him.

"Write…write a column for you…" he murmured, repeating Liam's words back.

Liam was grinning now and nodding his head vigorously. "Aye, that's right. And I thought…since you work for a respected paper like Quinn's, well, it's all rather perfect! Like fate brought us—"

"Wait, wait," Tom interrupted, holding up a hand to stop Liam from speaking. He looked back at the other man, and despite Liam's rather stupid-looking grin, Tom was still frowning. "You want The Irish Republic to print your group's propaganda—"

"Oh don't say it like that, Tommy," Liam groaned, rolling his eyes.

"How else am I to say it? Because that's what it is!" Tom hissed.

Liam gave him a look. "It's not, because we don't want you to simply…print…what we say; we want someone…a well-respected journalist…to write for us."

Tom blinked again as Liam looked at him pointedly.

"ME!?" he asked, his eyes wide with shock.

"Of course!" Liam grinned. "You'd be perfect, Tommy—"

"I haven't written anything, Liam!"

"To quote that fiancée of yours, 'not yet'."

Tom glared back at him; he didn't like Liam using Sybil as a means to persuade him.

"Look, talk to Quinn, or whoever your…superior…is. Talk to them and tell them that you want to do some 'investigative journalism'…that's what you reporters are supposed to do, right? Come to one of our meetings, listen and scribble whatever you wish, do some interviews perhaps, and then…present it to Quinn and…well, there you have it."

There he had it. Liam made it all sound so simple, when Tom knew it was anything but.

"Even if I do all that—and I'm not saying I will, but even if I do, there's no guarantee that the paper will—"

"You're a good writer, Tommy, you'll make it work."

Tom looked at Liam as if he were mad. "You've never even read anything that I've written! How can you say—"

"I have, actually," Liam interrupted. "Back when we were in school? I remember that paper you wrote, and the speech you gave, about Ireland's history, and how rich it was on its own, without British influence—"

"Oh God, we were lads, then! I couldn't have been more than ten, eleven at most—"

"Aye, and yet I remember it. Clearly, as if it were yesterday. You stood up there, in front of twenty other brats and that old bat, Sister Abigail—"

"Oh God, Sister Abigail," Tom groaned, wincing as he recalled the harsh nun who had taken a ruler to his backside on more than one occasion.

Liam did smile at that. "Aye, she was a mean one, and could ignite fear in the bravest of men. But you stood there and you read your paper, and if you were scared, you didn't show it. You spoke with such confidence and clarity and yes, even passion…Tommy, you were destined for this."

There was that word again. "Destiny". Tom felt similarly to Liam, in the sense that he always believed a man made his own destiny, but there was something about Liam's speech, something that caused Tom to pause and think about his past, and his present…and possibly his future.

"Look, at least think about it, alright?" Liam coaxed. "Think about coming to one of our meetings…and then decide for yourself."

Tom frowned again. He didn't like this, because it felt like, once again, he owed Liam something, but then again, he hadn't really gotten the chance to "thank" his old friend for what he had done for Sybil and his siblings. Though attending some sort of "secret meeting" was quite different from simply buying the man a drink.

"I'll not promise you anything," Tom answered honestly, his voice resolute and firm. "I will think about it, I will consider it, but that's all." He glanced up the steps, towards the sounds of the loud newspaper office. "I may not be writing yet, but I do like this job and I don't want to lose it by pushing anything—"

"I understand," Liam assured, before reaching forward and taking one of Tom's hands in his own, giving it a hearty shake. "Thank you, though. Thank you for listening, Tommy. And thank you also, for considering it. And when you're ready, just come find me at the docks, like you did last week."

It wasn't missed on Tom that Liam had said "when you're ready"; no one could accuse Liam Doyle of not being confident.

"I've been away from my desk too long," Tom muttered, pulling his hand away from Liam's and turning on his heel to go back up the steps.

Liam gave a cheeky grin at this. "Aye, you don't want to be kept from proof-reading another man's work!"

Tom whipped his head around at the comment, but Liam was already walking away, looking over his shoulder and winking back at him, before disappearing out the building's doors.

He ground his teeth at the retreating figure of his former friend, and felt his hands clench at his sides. He's just trying to get a rise out of you, in hopes that it will convince you to come around to his side, just like in the past. Sure, his old friend might have matured a little bit, being able to admit when he was wrong and actually seem sincere in his apologies, but there was enough of the "old Liam" in him that kept Tom on edge from completely trusting the man. Which was probably wise.

When it was time for lunch, instead of going to his mother's, Tom went back to his sister's place. It was both closer, and wouldn't have the "distraction" of Sybil (it had been noticed that he had stepped away from his desk for quite a bit of time—and noticed by Samuel Quinn, so he wanted to keep his lunch short, and hurry back to the office as soon as possible). However, when he entered the pub and climbed the stairs to Sean and Kathleen's flat, he had not been expecting to find a certain visitor, standing in the doorway of his sister's kitchen.

"Oh! Tommy!" Deidre gasped, looking up at him with surprise, before her face broke out into a pretty smile. "My, this is a pleasant surprise!"

Tom wasn't quite sure how to respond. What was she doing there? And in Kathleen's kitchen? And where was his sister? But before he could ask any of those questions, before he could even open his mouth to speak, his cousin came into the room, her brow furrowed and her face buried in a pile of papers in her hands. "It has to be in hear somewhere, I only clipped it out of that magazine last week—" she stopped when she realized that someone else (himself) was standing in the room.

Nora blinked at him, looking just as confused as he had been at finding Deidre there. She glanced over at Deidre, and then back at him, and Tom felt his jaw clench slightly at the rather cold look she was giving him; her own kin, and yet she was looking at him like he was just some stranger that had wandered off the street and invaded the flat.

"Kathleen isn't here," she finally told him, even though he hadn't asked. So she was talking to him now? And it had nothing to do with Liam Doyle. "What are you doing here? I thought you were at work?"

Her questions had a bit of a "accusatory" edge to them. Tom wasn't in the mood. "I came back for some lunch," he muttered, moving past the two women. "Don't worry; I won't be here for long."

Nora lifted her nose at this, but Deidre, still smiling, stepped forward, her eyes and voice filled with nothing but pleasantness. "Oh, that is a shame; otherwise I would invite you to join us!"

It wasn't missed on Tom the way Nora turned and stared at Deidre as if she had suggested they invite the devil himself to join them.

He pressed his lips together to keep himself from smiling at his cousin's displeasure. "And where are you both off to?" he asked, moving to a cupboard to get some bread and make himself a quick sandwich.

"Oh, just a bit of shopping," Deidre explained, waving her hand in the air somewhat dismissively. "…And I'm thinking of getting my hair cut," she added. "In that short style that all the girls are getting now. Nora saw a picture in a magazine—I'm trying to convince her to consider getting the cut too."

Nora blushed darkly at this, but avoided Tom's eyes. Quite frankly, Tom didn't care whether his cousin got her hair cut short or let it grow to her ankles. It was her hair.

"Best be going," Nora muttered under her breath, moving to grab her coat and hat, but Deidre clearly wasn't ready to leave just yet.

"I'm sorry we didn't get a chance to speak more on Friday," she told him. "Of course…you did seem to have your hands full…"

Nora snorted at this, but stopped herself at the glare Tom shot her from across the kitchen.

If Deidre had noticed, she didn't act like it. "How is she? Your girl?" Deidre inquired, a look of concern on her face. In all honesty, Tom couldn't tell if was sincere or not. He rather doubted it.

"She's doing much better, thank you," Tom murmured, his eyes going back to the sandwich he was fixing. "I'm sure Nora could tell you that—she was there with us yesterday, in church."

Nora didn't say anything; she simply hugged the pile of papers to her chest and looked at Deidre rather impatiently.

Deidre ignored her. "I came by on Saturday, hoping to speak with you and find out more, but…well, you weren't here," she sighed.

"No, I was at my mother's," Tom answered, his eyes on his sandwich. "I stayed there all day on Saturday."

"So I gathered," Deidre replied, her voice sounding a bit…he wasn't sure, but there was a hint of something in her tone. "You must have spent Friday night there, too—I didn't see you come back," she explained.

Tom did lift his eyes to meet Deidre's then. "I did, yes," he simply answered, before moving to the kitchen table with his sandwich and proceeding to take a bite.

Deidre bit her lip, looking like she wanted to say something else, but if she did, she didn't say. She glanced over her shoulder at Nora, whose eyes were urging the other woman to leave and follow.

She gave a bit of a sigh and looked back at him. "Well! Let us not interrupt you and your lunch," she said in a pleasant voice, before finally turning and walking towards the door, only to pause just for a moment and look back at him. "You were always so thoughtful," she murmured, her words causing Tom to look back at her with some confusion. She smiled at him. "I remember how you carried me back to my house, after I got drunk that one time."

A deep blush colored his face as the memory returned.

Deidre grinned. "Of course, you were quite drunk too, if memory serves," she giggled. "It's amazing you didn't drop me!"

Tom swallowed and looked down at his plate.

"Hmmm," Deidre hummed to herself, her smile only growing as she reminisced about their past. "Yes, you were always so caring, so considerate…and so gentle…"

Tom looked up at her, but unlike her, there was no smile on his face and no warmth in his eyes at the memories she was speaking. But she didn't seem bothered. Instead, she just smiled at him, before turning finally to an impatient Nora and announcing that they were finally off, leaving him and his sandwich in peace, though if truth be told, he had rather lost his appetite.

"What was that about?" Nora hissed as she and Deidre exited the flat.

Deidre looked back at her friend, the picture of innocence. "What? That? Oh, it was nothing! Just…an old memory, that's all."

Nora didn't look so convinced. Deidre's smile only grew. She laced her arm with Nora's as they started walking down the street, away from the pub and its flat. "And what's this I hear about Liam Doyle coming to call?" she sweetly asked, grinning all the more at Nora's deep blush.

Nora fidgeted slightly at Deidre's words. "Nothing," she mumbled. "And he didn't 'come to call', he just…he just came to the pub, to see Tommy, that's all." It wasn't missed on Deidre that Nora looked rather down at the mention of this.

"Your cousin is very popular right now," she tried to console. "People are just curious about him, now that he's back."

"So I noticed," Nora mumbled, glancing at Deidre, somewhat accusatory.

Deidre sighed. "Alright, it's true, I too have been curious—"

"Have been?" Nora sputtered.

Deidre fixed her with a harsh look that had Nora shrinking back. But soon she was smiling again, which seemed to ease the dark-haired Branson woman, and once again brought her out of her shell.

"I really think you should get your hair cut," Deidre insisted, changing the subject, or rather, bringing it back to something she knew Nora wouldn't mind discussing. "That will certainly get Liam's attention."

Nora blushed and she looked down at the papers in her arms, a small smile curling at the corners of her mouth. "Do you think so?"

Deidre grinned, her arm now moving around Nora's shoulders. "Of course! My dear, let me help you! We'll have Liam Doyle eating out of the palm of your hand by this summer!"

Nora's face turned an even darker shade of red, but she was beaming now at the thought. This made Deidre happy. "We'll help each other," she simply stated as they continued to walk.

Nora lifted a brow at this. "Oh, but…but how can I help…?"

"Oh don't worry about that right now; I'll be sure to let you know, when the time is right," she told her. They continued on their journey, though at one point, Deidre did mention out loud that perhaps, before the week was over, she would pay a visit to the home of Margaret Branson.

"Whatever for?" Nora asked, not understanding why Deidre would want to go over there, especially considering who was staying there.

Deidre shrugged her shoulders. "Well, it's not just Tommy that people are curious about, of course. And I haven't really gotten a chance to meet his…Lady Sybil."

Nora made a face. "Don't know why you would want to," she muttered.

Deidre didn't answer her. She just smiled.